Part One
Kaufman’s Variety Store had been a fixture in my neighborhood long before I had lived there—and that was slightly more than a decade.
I was 33 years old in 1971. In 1960, when I was a 22-year-old, my new wife and I had bought a small house that had suddenly become available on the market. The price fit our budget, so we moved out of our apartment. More accurately, it fit my wife’s budget as she came from a very well-to-do family. That was the last major purchase that Meredith and I ever made together. A few months, later, we separated, jointly realizing full well that our two-year marriage had been a huge mistake. Whatever had inspired the initial attraction between the two of us had vanished. We discovered that we had very little in common, except that we were both unfaithful spouses who heartily disliked our respective in-laws. We had no children, which made our arranging a quick divorce a relatively simple matter. Part of the settlement was that I got to keep the house—an agreement that was a great boon to me. I had lived there alone ever since Meredith and I parted ways. Now, of course, I was responsible for doing all my shopping, a task that I generally loathed. Often, I forgot to buy items at the grocery store, such as milk, so I became a frequent customer at Kaufman’s Variety, which was located within easy walking distance, about half a block away from my home.
Those were the days when most of what would later be called “convenience stores” were still the mom-and-pop type. National or even regional chains of these stores had not yet made their appearance. Wayne Kaufman was a second-generation owner of his family’s variety store. He and his wife Veronica shared the duties of running the enterprise. It was small enough that only one person was needed behind the counter. Whenever they went on vacation, their daughter, Emily, would run the place.
One day when I stopped by the store to buy a loaf of bread, a noticed a “help wanted” sign taped to the front door. Two days later, I saw an unfamiliar face behind the counter next to Wayne, who was instructing her how to work the cash register. Wayne called me over to meet his new employee.
“David,” he said to me, “this lovely young gal is Bridget Smith. She will be running things here at the store on days when Veronica and I are absent. I just hired her today.”
“Oh, is that right?” I asked for no logical reason. It had to be right. Why wouldn’t it be right?
Wayne continued, “Now that Emily is married and has other responsibilities, I needed someone to fill in for my daughter. Veronica and I plan on doing a lot of traveling, so I believe you’ll be seeing Bridget here quite often.”
I estimated this female to be 18 years old. A fair-haired girl with a pretty face and an appealing smile, she was only about 5’2” tall. She was blessed with an attractive figure, too. “Hello, Bridget. I’m David Klein," I said politely. “It’s nice to meet you.” I wasn’t kidding; she was a major cutie. I added, “I’ll have to visit this store four or five times a day when I know you are behind the counter.” Back in 1971, one could openly state those types of compliments without being accused of sexual harassment or other such rubbish.
Bridget smiled again while Wayne chuckled. “Yes, Bridget is a big part of my plans to greatly increase our male customers,” Wayne noted. “The moment she applied for the job opening, I removed the ‘help wanted’ sign from the door.”
That comment did not surprise me in the least. Over the years I had known him, Wayne had often discussed the attributes of the store’s pretty customers with me. In other words, he was a normal adult male. I made my purchase, watched as Bridget entered it into the noisy, gray, push-button cash register, and left the store.
Part Two
Despite my promise of frequenting Kaufman Variety more often, I did not return there for another four days. On that day, Bridget was there alone. I had $2.65 worth of items in my hands when I approached the counter to pay for them. There were two other customers ahead of me. Both were unfamiliar males, so perhaps Bridget’s mere presence was indeed increasing the size of the store's clientele as Wayne had hoped it would.
I quickly noticed that Bridget was struggling with monetary issues. She was having a terrible time counting money and calculating the change that customers were entitled to receive. A cash register in those days didn’t tell the cashier what the customer’s change was. Of course, it did not automatically dispense it, either.
“Miss,” one kind-hearted, sixtyish male said to her with a great deal of compassion and patience in his voice, “my purchase came to $4.80. I handed you a five-dollar bill and a nickel. My change should be a quarter.”
Bridget sincerely asked him, “Why did you give me the extra nickel? Five dollars was already more than enough money for what you bought.”
“It’s because I want a quarter in change instead of two dimes,” he said. “The fewer coins I have in my pocket, the better I like it.”
“Oh, I never would have thought of that!” she replied and handed him his desired coin. The man rolled his eyes at me as he headed to the door.
The next customer to deal with Bridget had a similar experience. His purchases totaled $2.20. He gave Bridget a $10 bill. Bridget incorrectly handed him $8.80 in change instead of $7.80. The man was honest enough to point out the error to her.
“Young lady,” he said, “you’ve given me an extra dollar. Two dollars and 20 cents from a ten means my change ought to be $7.80, not $8.80.”
Bridget seemed perplexed. “Well, two from ten is eight, right?” she said.
The man had an incredulous look on his face. He shook his head and tried not to embarrass Bridget as he gave her an arithmetic lesson. “Miss, you have to account for the 20 cents. If my purchase was exactly $2, I’d get $8 change, but since it was $2.20, you have to deduct the 20 cents from the eight dollars. That makes my change $7.80.”
Bridget still seemed unconvinced, but she accepted the dollar bill that the customer voluntarily returned to her. He, too, gave me a look of dismay as he exited the store.
When I approached her, Bridget recognized me and even remembered my name. She was a flustered girl when I put my $2.65 worth of items on the counter and handed her a $5 bill. Bridget made her third consecutive miscalculation when she tried to give me $3.35 in change rather than $2.35.
“Bridget, that’s a dollar too much,” I told her. “You have to be more careful with your counting. Some customers won’t be so honest about pointing out a mistake if it favors them. Other customers will just take whatever change you offer them and shove it into their pockets without even bothering to count it. Either way, the store will take in less money than it should.”
“I know,” she said forlornly. “Mr. Kaufman says I was out more than $13 the first day, $18 the second day, and $15 yesterday. He told me these shortfalls cannot continue. I think he believes I’m stealing money from the till. I’m not. I just have trouble with arithmetic. I’ve always been weak at it, so I’m constantly making mistakes with the customers’ change.”
“Well, this seems like a strange job choice for you,” I said bluntly. “A cashier has to be good at doing mental arithmetic and handling money. That’s just common sense.”
Bridget conceded that I was likely right. “This could be my last day on the job,” Bridget revealed to me. “Mr. Kaufman said if the till was off by more than a nickel today, I would be fired, and the police might be called.”
“Do you think you’ll have another shortfall today?” I asked her.
“Probably. Those two customers who were ahead of you were the first ones who pointed out errors to me. Since my shift started, I’ve probably had 30 other customers who needed change and didn’t say a thing when I gave it to them. I probably gave most of them too much money back. I think I’m in serious trouble.”
I sensed that a marvelously sleazy opportunity was presenting itself. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do Bridget,” I offered. “I’ll give you $50 out of my wallet right now. That ought to be enough money to cover your losses for today and some of the previous days.”
“Thank you!” she said with a huge smile on her face. “But, David, why would you do that for me?”
“Because I want something in return,” I replied quickly and plainly. “I think you are very sexy and I want to fuck you.”
Bridget was startled by my frankness, but she didn’t reject my offer outright. She just looked at me quizzically and said, “Huh?”
“That’s my offer, Bridget,” I said. “I wanted to fuck you five seconds after meeting you the other day. I’m a divorced 33-year-old. I don’t have a steady girlfriend, and I’m extremely horny. You’re quite attractive and of legal age. This is a business transaction. If you want the $50 to make up for the shortfalls, I’ll give it to you in exchange for a 30-minute romp with you in the back storage room. Or you can take your chances on your arithmetic being accurate. When is your next break?”
“I get to take a 30-minute lunch break in about 20 minutes from now,” Bridget informed me.
“Alright, if my offer interests you, I can return in 20 minutes,” I told her. “So, are you interested, Bridget?”
“Well, I guess that’s the best option for me,” she admitted.
I glanced at my watch and said, “Look for me in 20 minutes. I can’t wait to shove my dick into your pussy.”
Part Three
I collected my purchase and practically sprinted the half block to my house. I set my groceries on the counter and went into the bathroom to wash up and look presentable. (I wanted to make a good impression on Bridget. Given her shoddy math skills, I figured this might be the first of many such sexual romps with her, and I didn’t want to be too much of a pig about it.) I slapped on a noticeable amount of some masculine cologne I had last used when I was married, then I hustled back to the store.
When I returned, there was just one customer in the store: a boy who looked to be about seven years old. He was pondering what type of chocolate bar to buy. He was dawdling and it was already past the time when Bridget’s break was supposed to start. I became impatient with him. I told the kid I’d buy his treat for him if he was out of the store within the next 15 seconds. He promptly grabbed a Snickers, thanked me profusely, and ran out the door quite pleased with that deal. I tossed a dime on the counter to pay for it.
Bridget laughed at my eagerness. “In a hurry to begin, David?” she asked me as she locked the door and put a sign on it that said, “Store Temporarily Closed. Returning Shortly.” I didn’t give her an answer. My actions spoke for themselves.
I had never been in the store’s back room in all the years I had been a customer. It was always locked. Besides, I had no reason to go in there. Bridget unlocked the door, flicked on the light, and shut the door behind us. I got my first glimpse of the place. It was crowded with cases of canned goods and bottled soft drinks. I thought it was going to be more spacious than it was, but the tight confines would not be too much of a problem.
I got to the point right away to avoid any misconceptions. “Bridget,” I declared, “I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to fuck you and please myself for 30 minutes. One question, though: Are you a virgin?”
“No,” she replied. “I’ve had sex a few times, but I haven’t had sex yet with my current boyfriend, so this seems a bit weird to me. He’d go crazy if he knew what I was doing with you. Also, I’ve never had sex with a man in his thirties. You’re in that age category, I assume.”
“You assume correctly, Bridget,” I replied. “But I already told you I was 33, remember? I can assure you that a man in his thirties and a teenage boy both fuck the same way. We old guys might do it better, though. Let’s get down to business. I can disrobe you or you can take off your own clothes. It’s your choice.”
I was surprised but pleased when Bridget chose the first option. We both remained standing. I moved behind her and unbuttoned her blouse and removed her brassiere. Her breasts were as lovely as I’d imagined they’d be. I immediately began to fondle them while I planted kisses on her neck.
“These are fabulous tits, Bridget,” I told her. “Your boyfriend will enjoy them someday.” She made no comment as I continued to play with them. I honestly figured my handling of her boobs was already worth the $50 I had shelled out.
After about five minutes of sensuous groping, I turned Bridget around so I could suck on her treasures. Because of our height difference, Bridget remained standing while I sat on a stack of cases of canned root beer. Between licks and sucks, I said, “There aren’t many things in a man’s life better than sucking on a teenage girl’s perky tits! I’m really enjoying this.” Again, Bridget made no comment.
I had developed a terrific erection, but it was becoming uncomfortable for me with my trousers and briefs still on. I stood up to remove them. While I undressed, I instructed Bridget to remove her slacks and panties to save time. She let both items fall to the floor. I gathered them up and set them on a case of canned peas. “Thank you,” Bridget said softly. Those were the first words Bridget had uttered since she had displayed her tits to me.
“Hmm, I guess there is one thing better than sucking on a young girl's tits,” I opined. “That would be fucking her tight pussy.” Accordingly, I quickly lifted Bridget onto the stack of root beer cases that I had just vacated and spread her legs apart. She was at the perfect height to be fucked if I remained standing up. So I did. Without further ado, I drove my hard dick into Bridget’s hairy muff. It was tighter than I expected, so the physical sensation of fucking her was superb. Bridget seemed to like it too. She said, “Oh!” in a pleasant manner. A few oohs and aahs followed as I thrusted my manhood in and out of her. It occurred to me that this could be a wonderful arrangement if it were permanent. I’d gladly pay Bridget $50 to cover her careless math errors whenever it was necessary.
I was thoroughly enjoying myself and getting into the spirit of having illicit sex under crooked conditions. While I continued my screwing, I also talked to Bridget in not necessarily flattering tones. I asked her rhetorically, “Do you like getting fucked by my long, hard dick, Bridget? Do you like it rough? Does my fucking please you, girl?” I also added, “Nobody fucks you like I do. You’re a far better lay than my ex-wife ever was. You’re going to get a huge cum shot from me!”
After nearly 10 minutes of my vigorously riding her, Bridget finally said something: “Don’t come in my pussy, David, please. You can come anywhere else you wish."
I thought that was a thoroughly reasonable request and concession. I didn’t have long to ponder my options, though. An ejaculation was imminent.
“I’m going to come right now!” I shouted. I managed to withdraw my dick from Bridget’s vagina and fire my semen onto her flat stomach and her delightful tits. My prediction was on the money. It was one of the best cum shots I had ever launched since I discovered the joys of sex at age 12.
I told Bridget to stay where she was as half her lunch break still remained for me to enjoy. I got a roll of paper towels from the staff restroom and brought them to her so she could clean my jism from her torso. It was sexy to see her slowly remove the sticky goo I had splattered so liberally on her fine breasts. Once she had completed that task, I returned to where I had started. I resumed fondling Bridget's terrific tits while I kissed her neck. Bridget must have enjoyed the sexual contact, too, because I was the one who had to inform her it was time to reopen the store and return to work. I made sure she put the $50 I had given her in the till before I left.
“Thanks, David...for everything,” she said as I opened the door to go home.” I took the last word as a double compliment. I certainly had relished fucking this cute, 18-year-old sexpot. I strongly suspected that Bridget had quietly enjoyed being vaginally penetrated by me, too.
Part Four
I didn’t return to Kaufman’s Variety for five days until I needed a carton of milk and a loaf of bread. When I walked into the store, it was Wayne who was behind the counter.
“Bridget’s not here today? What a shame!” I said to him.
“No, she’s not, David. She won’t be returning either, at least not as an employee.”
“Oh, that really is a shame. What happened?” I asked him. I strongly suspected the reason behind her dismissal--and I was right.
“That girl was all looks and no brains,” Wayne declared. “Bridget couldn’t do basic arithmetic or count money worth a damn. It was very peculiar, though, David. At the end of her first three shifts, the till was negatively off by at least $13. Then on the fourth day, Bridget had nearly $40 more than she should have had! Then after her next two shifts she was off by about $20 each time. I stuck around to watch her in action to find out what was going on with the till. She wasn’t being dishonest. She was just rotten at math. I prevented two or three silly counting errors. I became exasperated with her, so I told Bridget she couldn’t possibly work here any longer with such poor math skills. Didn’t you see that I’ve got the ‘help wanted’ sign taped to the door again?”
Actually, I hadn’t noticed it when I came in, but there it was when Wayne drew my attention to it.
“I think I can account for the unusual occurrence on the fourth day,” I told him since there was no one else in the store at the time. I explained, “I had seen Bridget struggling with calculating customers’ change. She told me about the previous three days’ cash shortfalls. I told her I’d give her $50 to make up for them if I could fuck her during her lunch break. She agreed to my plan, so I came back at lunchtime and screwed her in the supply room. She was a great fuck, Wayne! It was well worth the $50 I paid for it.”
Wayne seemed flabbergasted by this revelation. He was dumbfounded for a moment. Then he suddenly said, “Well, shit! Bridget was a sexy little thing. That was mostly why I hired her. If I’m being totally honest, I suppose that was the only reason why I hired her. I would have gladly erased the daily cash shortfalls for an occasional fuck...had I only known she’d go along with it.”